


A spy spins a story

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya almost meets his match





	A spy spins a story

The winter weather had turned mild and damp and there was a lot of illness around. Napoleon was in bed with some kind of flu. You didn’t get much sympathy for flu – no-one ever believed it if a man went sick complaining of it – though in Napoleon’s case, if there was any sympathy going (and there was), he milked it for all it was worth. But given that he had flu and no-one wanted to catch it, he didn’t actually get visitors. Even his partner abandoned him after leaving him with some medication – cough mixture that had the colour of weather-beaten copper and tasted of iron filings. Napoleon suspected he’d brought it with him from Russia and after one sip decided against taking another.

Illya was now on his own, of course, and longing for a hard frost or snow. It was all quiet on the mad-egomaniac front – there were no threats to world peace, or even to the New York transportation system, which he was spending time exploring. His excuse was that it might be useful in the future, but mainly it was warm and gave him something to do.

On one of the longer bus routes, he found himself sitting next to the mother of a little girl who, when he sat down, began to manifest egomaniacal characteristics. She demanded his name, his address, his occupation, the names of his friends and his wife and his children, whether he was a foreign spy up to no good – all in one breath. She scolded him for not wearing enough, for not wearing a hat, for having wet hair as a result, and said he’d catch his death. And why wasn’t he married, anyway?

Illya looked at her mother with raised eyebrows. The lady looked exhausted and just shrugged, “I’m sorry,” she said.

Illya frowned at the child and said, “Are you like this all day?”

The child stared at him, outraged. “Like what?”

“An FBI interrogator.”

This meant nothing to the child who folded her arms defiantly and pouted furiously up at him. “What’s that?” she demanded.

“Someone who asks intrusive questions and tries to catch people out.”

“So, ask me a question instead, Mr Blue-eyes.”

“Sandy!” said her mother. “Leave the gentleman alone!”

Illya took pity on her and said, “It’s OK. Where do you get out?” Told it was near the end of the line, he turned to the child and said, “I’ll tell you a story instead, Sandy.”

“Okay. Give. Better be good,” said the child challengingly.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a really good little girl. Revoltingly good.” The child looked interested. Encouraged, Illya continued. “She wandered into the wood near her home and come upon a tiny house. ‘Aha,’ she thought to herself, ‘Now I can get up to mischief without anyone knowing or hurting me’.”

At the child’s disbelieving look, he said, “That was _her_ idea, anyway, but like most little girls of her age she had completely the wrong idea about that kind of thing. What she did not know was that, lurking inside the house, was an enormous giant.”

The child remained sceptical. “You may or may not believe that – I don’t care,” said Illya. “Suffice to say that a giant _was_ lurking, hideously, in this sweet little house intent upon having a revolting little girl for tea.”

“You said she was revoltingly _good_ ,” said the child with satisfaction at catching him out.

Illya sighed. “When he saw this revoltingly _good_ little girl, he cried: ‘Ah! This revolting little girl wants to get up to mischief without anyone knowing or hurting her!’ He thought she was just revolting, you see.”

The child accepted that without argument, to his relief, and he went on, “You observe that he was conversant with the ways of revolting little girls and had planned his life around it. The revoltingly good little girl went up to the sweet little house and opened the door and walked in. The giant was well aware of the foibles of revolting little girls and allowed her to walk around planning mischief for a while. He was so big, she didn’t notice him even though he had to bend double because the ceilings were so low. Then he pounced!”

The child jumped up, punching the air in excitement. “Yes! Go, Giant!”

Illya eyed her nervously and said, “He very much enjoyed his tea, it had been a long time since any revolting little girls had come his way, least of all at tea-time.”

“So, he _ate_ her? But she didn’t even have time to get up to mischief!”

“Yes, he ate her – and not before time. Of course, he didn’t hurt her … much …” he added insidiously, “and no-one ever discovered what had happened.”

“Except _you_ ,” said the child.

“Of course,” said Illya. “I know everything. I’m a spy. You said so.”

She looked him up and down and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said dismissively. “I think you made all that stuff up.”

Sandy’s mother laughed then, and looked younger all at once. “Come on, Sandy,” she said, “this is our stop. Thank you so much, Mr…?”

“You’re welcome,” he said gravely.

But Sandy squealed, “I want to know what happened next!”

“To the giant? Oh, he’s still around, waiting for another revolting little girl to turn up. So, you’d better be careful.”

As the bus pulled out into the traffic, he saw Sandy’s mother waving, but Sandy herself was pulling a face at him, so he stuck his tongue out in reply, surprising the elderly lady who had taken the child’s place. He had looked such a sweet, polite young man.

**Author's Note:**

> LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: medication, copper
> 
> As anyone familiar with the tale will know, this story owes something to one called “The Storyteller” by the very subversive writer, Saki (H.H. Munro, 1870-1916).


End file.
